


The Misremembering

by romanoff



Series: snippets/WIPs [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Hurt Tony Stark, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 12:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15605871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: After Infinity War, Tony is left alone, depressed, and borderline alcoholic. Thor suggests a pick-me-up in the form of an off-world pleasure planet. Team-bonding for Steve, Bucky, and Tony, and some well-deserved rest and relaxation.Obviously, it doesn’t go to plan when they end up quarantined, with a sickness taking them one by one. They flee, and then Tony starts to forget.





	The Misremembering

**Author's Note:**

> When I'm bored/lack inspiration, I upload all my WIPS and let people select which ones they like best. So, let me know if you like!
> 
> Okay. You can assume this takes place sometime after infinity war, which was magically solved, and everyone came out alive.

Tony digs his fingers into dirt. It had been there, he’d thought. There had been something there. He dreamt about it, the tags on the metal chain. He’d – had them. And then he hadn’t?  
   
They’re important. He can’t remember why. He just knows – he just knows. He searches until the sun sets and moons rise in the sky, the air cold, his breath fogging in front of his face. They had been there, he’s sure of it. He wants to cry, desperate. They had been there. Two tags on a metal chain. Two tags. They were important. They were –  
   
Exhausted, aching, fingers bleeding, palms scratched by stone, dirt under his nails, he crawls into his tent, curls up on his cot. He sleeps. When he wakes up, it’s warm again. He looks at his hands. He wonders why they’re torn.  
   
   
Before the Mis-rememberingÔ, as they would later come to call it, Tony was enjoying the bachelor life. Vacation for one, a seven-star resort on a white sand, man-made island just off the Maldives, his (seventh) drink of the day in his hand, staring off a private veranda onto glacially blue waters.  
   
He goes through the checklist in his head; Hawaiian shorts he only bought because Pepper thought they were funny: check. Honeymoon suite for one: check. A crushing sense of existential dread and an awareness of the futility of life: check. Snorkel: check. What more do you need? Alcohol on tap, complete solitude, and a set of goggles that let you breathe underwater. Nothing says well-adjusted like a middle-aged man, alone, surrounded by nine empty bottles of Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle Brut and one unused snorkel.  
   
So, maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he’s depressed. Maybe he’s in denial. He wasn’t quite ditched at the alter – it wasn’t that bad. But it was late enough in the proceedings that Rhodey had tightened Tony’s bow tie, Pepper’s father was stationed, ready to walk her down the aisle, all the world’s cameras were focused on the beautiful venue, the ultimate triumph, love conquering all in the face of death and destruction, the final happy ending --  
   
Which never came.  
   
Pepper got cold feet. You’re not supposed to see your bride in the dress before they walk down the aisle. Well, Tony got to. Pepper, crying, looking pristine, perfect, beautiful. “I can’t do it,” she’d sobbed, “I can’t, I just _can’t.”_  
   
Tony had tried to talk her out of it. They’d delayed, one hour, two hours. People knew something was up. The guests got restless. And when it became apparent that Tony’s relationship was over, that he wasn’t, in fact, going to be getting married today, it was Pepper who came up with the cover. To save face, if you will.  
   
Tony had had a heart-attack. Yes, _that_ was the reason the wedding had to be cancelled. It also conveniently meant Tony was going to have to lay-low for a while – a rather fore-thinking move on Pepper’s part, almost as if she _knew_ he was going to be dealing with crippling depression. Anyway, no one really believed it, but everyone pretended to. At least, to his face.  
   
And that’s how he ended up here, on his own, on his honeymoon. He didn’t choose this place; he’d wanted a cabin in Rockies, _real_ solitude, not the half-baked, pretend isolation this place sold at $15,000 per night. But maybe he’s a glutton for punishment, or maybe he was just motivated by a new sense of frugality. Either way. This is it.  
   
The food is shit. Fruit for breakfast, fruit for lunch, organic, uncooked meat for dinner, portioned so small it wouldn’t fill a child. Tony could stand to put on weight, after what happened. The war, the aftermath, the fix-it, then Pepper. It takes its toll. Tony had wanted to retire, but now even retirement is purposeless. No family for him. Good things do not happen to Tony Stark.  
   
He hears the helicopter flying overhead and doesn’t pay it any mind. Lots of rich bastards fly in on the their private coptors, there’s a landing pad just for them. He tips back his head, sighs, settles in for a mid-morning nap. His margarita condenses, the cool drops run down the back of his hand. He starts to slip.  
   
And then the sun is blocked by a shadow. Tony frowns. Two o’clock already? He’s not supposed to be having his happy-ending massage til after lunch. He takes out his earbuds – Human League, _Don’t You Want Me_ – and perches his sunglasses on his nose. “You,” he says, lips twisting.  
   
“Hi, Tony,” Steve says pleasantly, bracing his hands on his hips. “God, it’s gorgeous weather out here, isn’t it?”  
   
“What do you want.”  
   
“Really – “ Steve twists, blocking out the sun with a hand, squinting at the sun and admiring the ocean, “like a picture. Isn’t that something else?”  
   
He’s wearing his civvies, a blue polo shirt with the first two buttons undone, tucked into his chino shorts. He looks like a nice WASP boy ready for a day of hard golfing and shouting at the help. “You’re going to get sunburned,” Tony mutters, pushing his glasses back on his nose, letting his head thump back against the deckchair.  
   
“I always wear sunblock, Tony. You know me.” It’s true; Steve smells distinctly of men’s cologne and sunblock. It kinda reminds Tony of when he was a kid. It’s the same shit his dad would wear, and the sunblock – brings back memories of sticky fingers, and picnics, lakes, the sports day at school.  
   
“Mmm,” Tony says dispassionately. “You are a good boy, aren’t you. Is this a social call, or…?”  
   
Steve shrugs, pulls up a chair. “Kinda,” he says. “Sorta.”  
   
“Kinda sorta? I’m on vacation. I don’t want work. Don’t bother me. I’ve yet to see any alien ships fall from the sky, or moons enter our atmosphere, as far as I’m concerned I’m not – “  
   
“Relax,” Steve says, holding out his hands.  
   
“I am relaxed,” Tony snaps. “I’m _trying_ to relax.”  
   
“I’ll be honest, Tony, this doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing.”  
   
“Yeah well – I’m making it my kind of thing.”  
   
“If that’s what you really want,” Steve says, in a way that’s so – innocent, he’s obviously banking on Tony following that up, which, like a fool, he does.  
   
“Why are you here?” He retorts, sitting up abruptly. “Last time I saw you – “  
   
“Let’s not talk about the last time you saw me.”  
   
“That’s hard when you show up out the blue and block my sun. What is it? Do you need me?” Tony says, reluctant, gearing himself up for it, mentally packing his bags in his mind. “Is there some kind of – “  
   
“Actually, it’s – can’t a guy drop in and see how his friend’s doing once in a while?”  
   
Tony narrows his eyes. “Is this a pity party? Did Rhodey put you up to this?”  
   
Steve opens his mouth, shuts it. “He did tell me to check up on you,” he admits, “but that’s not why I’m here!” He adds quickly as Tony rolls his eyes and threatens to put his earphones back in. “How – how’d you like a vacation? A _real_ vacation? Something more to your speed?”  
   
Tony stares at him. “If you’re suggesting – some kind of drug fuelled – “  
   
“Yes, Tony, I’m suggesting we go on a drug-fuelled hedonistic romp across the border,” Steve says flatly, with such conviction, that it takes Tony a hot second to realise he’s attempting a joke.  
   
“You never used to joke,” Tony grumbles. “I preferred you when you didn’t joke.”  
   
“I mean, you could do that, if you wanted. From what Thor says – “  
   
“What the fuck has Thor got to do with anything?”  
   
“It’s planet,” Steve explains. “A pleasure planet. Like a – ten star resort. There’s no tech allowed, apparently, but he landed there with the Guardians a couple months back. He – “  
   
“Wanted to de-stress. After everything.” Tony snorts at the image of Thor with cucumbers over his eyes, wearing a fluffy white robe. He probably would, the big lump. That man can pull off anything.  
   
“Right. And he did. He said – it’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced. _Thor_ said that, Tony. Thor. The guy’s a god, he grew up a prince on a golden planet – “  
   
“I get it, it’s a big deal.”  
   
“They want to pay thanks,” Steve keeps saying, “you know, because we – did what we did.”  
   
“Saved the day,” Tony mutters, dryly.  
   
“Sure, if you want to call it that. A month package, teleport there and back, the whole, just the three of us – “  
   
“Stop. No. Rewind.” Tony had been half-sold. Who the hell wouldn’t be? A planet so fantastic it knocked the socks off the King of Asgard? An all-inclusive buffet of treats and new things to experience? A vacation _so_ relaxing a freak like Rocket can lie back and enjoy himself? Yeah, Tony was maybe feeling it. Him and Steve, bachelors, kind of like a – Hangover situation, without the amnesia, monkeys, and unnecessary sequels.  
   
Steve can be good company, when he wants to be. And hey, maybe what happens on pleasure planet stays on pleasure planet, right?  
   
“The three of us,” Tony prompts. “Explain that.”  
   
“You,” Steve says. “Me.”  
   
“And?”  
   
“Bucky,” he winces, and then rushes to convince him. “But you’d barely have to see each other. He’ll be – destressing, you’ll be – I don’t know, getting over Potts. Thor said – “ he can see Steve grit his teeth, like the idea is mildly distasteful, “there are _lots_ of places for that kind of thing. You know. Getting over – people.”  
   
“Great. I’ve always wanted to visit a whorehouse with the human personification of virtue.”  
   
“I – _I_ wouldn’t,” Steve says, stiffly, going hot under the collar. “I’m just saying – if that’s something that’s attractive to you – “  
    
   
   
“Greetings,” the woman says. She stands about the same height as Tony, but like everything else on this planet she – bottle shaped, kinda. Her hair is pulled off her face in a tight pony-tail, which hangs down her back, hair pearlescent, eyes a translucent blue. “I am Kale,” she continues, pleasantly, “and I will be your Guardian during your stay.”  
   
“Kale?” Bucky asks.  
   
“Yes, friend?”  
   
“No, I mean – Kale? Like – like the spinach?”  
   
“Cabbage,” Tony corrects, “it’s a cabbage, actually.”  
   
“No, I think Kale is her name. Your name is Kale?” Steve asks, kindly.  
   
“Yes, my name is – Kale.” The Guardian looks confused, but quickly smoothes over it. “If you do not like my name, I can change it, or – “  
   
“No! No,” Bucky amends quickly, “I just – sorry, I wondered if you were named after the spinach – “  
   
“Cabbage.”  
   
“Cabbage. I wondered if…”  
   
There’s a weird, awkward silence. Then the Guardian smiles, recommences. “As your Guardian,” she says, “it is my job to ensure that your time here on Naplion II is smooth and enjoyable. As a Naplionite, I am born to serve – “  
   
Tony makes a face. “Yikes. Is that like, a slavery thing, or…?”  
   
“Slavery?” Kale questions. “I can be your slave if – “  
   
“No,” Steve says, just shaking his head. “No, that won’t be necessary, thanks.”  
   
“We are born to serve,” she explains, “it’s the only way to reach fulfilment. That’s why we built this resort on our largest moon – “  
   
“Oh, this is a moon?” Tony asks. “Awesome.”  
   
“  -- to bring peace and the gift of selflessness to all people,” Kale finishes, or maybe just gives up. “You are our heroes,” she says, sweeping into a low --- curtsey, maybe? “We honour you.”  
   
“That won’t be necessary,” Steve says uneasily, hiking his bag on his shoulder. Three, similarly shaped aliens are approaching them with wreaths of pale pastel vines and flowers. “Really, we don’t need – “  
   
“It would be a grave offence not to accept the token of our appreciation,” Kale says, lightly.  
   
Steve grins, frowning, and dips his head to accept the wreath. “Great,” he says, “these are really – fantastic. And we thank you, for your thanks.”  
   
“Could I interest you in some drink?” A giggling, bottle-shaped girl asks, wearing a pale green smock.  
   
“Don’t mind if I do,” Tony chips it. It’s – frothy, and smooth, and bubbly. It tastes like – oh boy. It tastes like the milkshakes his mom used to make him, mixed with his favourite scotch, mixed with his favourite chai. It’s like – chocolate and strawberry and liquor and soda all at once. It’s thick, and creamy, but light going down. It’s like – like –  
   
He’s drunk the whole glass. He stares at it, and then it refills, all the way to the brim, out of thin air. “Woah,” he breathes. “What kind of – “  
   
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Kale smiles. “One of many delicacies we have here on Naplion II. Here, let us take your luggage from your weary backs.”  
   
A small man wearing a beige-brown smock rushes forward to pry Tony’s Canali, Dark Blue Tumbled Leather, 4-wheel suitcase from his hand. “Be careful with that,” he says, “it’s – “  
   
“Your luggage will be taken to your quarters,” Kale says, gently. “Friends, could Sister Bale offer you any refreshment?”  
   
“Oh, she’s your sister?” Steve asks, as the green-smocked girl offers him a frothy concoction.  
   
“No, it is a term of endearment. Brother Nale, if you would take those bags, please.”  
   
Steve’s eyes have slipped shut, sipping at the drink. He demonstrates more self-restraint than Tony, at least. “Oh wow,” he breathes, “that’s, uh. That’s something else, huh?”  
   
“Friend?” Sister Bale prompts, proffering the tray under Bucky’s nose. “Would you like refreshment?”  
   
“No thanks. I don’t drink anything except water.”  
   
Tony resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You really know how to unwind, huh?”  
   
“You don’t know what’s in that,” Bucky snaps. “It could be anything. Excuse me if I don’t want to be drugged six ways to Sunday – “  
   
“It’s fine, Buck,” Steve says loosely, “it’s just like soda.”  
   
“Oh yeah, it sure _sounds_ like it was just soda. No,” Bucky says firmly, “I said no thanks.”  
   
“Please, Sister Bale,” Kale says, “he does not want it. Friends, if you would follow me, we can talk further on our ride to the Citadel.”  
   
When she said ‘ride’, Tony had visions of another teleport, or some kind of jet. Instead, it’s an honest to God horse drawn cart. Except the horses – aren’t super horsey. They’re legs are longer, they’re manes are smoother. Like everything here, they’re made sleek, refined, minimalist. “Wow,” he hears Steve say, “they’re beautiful.”  
   
“What happened to the – beams?” Tony asks, waving his hands.  
   
“Our inter-molecular transportation – “  
   
“Teleports.”  
   
“Yes. Our teleports,” Kale says, flatly. “Are only authorised for entry onto Naplion II. Did you know that we’re the only pleasure planet in this galaxy granted the right by the Grand Council of Elders to use them? It’s a treat, to be sure.”  
   
“What do the colors mean?” Steve asks as the elegant, white cart kicks into life. “You all wear different colors.”  
   
“Well thank you for asking!” Kale says, delighted. “You’ll see we run a color-coded system here, for ease of access. Guardians such as myself are blue, Servers are green, Help is brown, Pleasure Maids and Pleasure Men are red, Doctors are grey –  
   
“Doctors?” Tony interrupts. “Like, in case we get sick?”  
   
“Oh no,” Kale laughs, “no one gets sick on Naplion II. It’s impossible.”  
   
“Can we die?”  
   
Kale frowns. “Do you mean – are you interested in our euthanasia services?”  
   
“No!” Steve blurts. “No! That’s – _definitely_ not what he meant, and – euthanasia? Thor didn’t mention euthanasia.”  
   
“Many people come here to be in peace during their final days,” Kale says gently. “Or maybe they simply decide they no longer wish to live. We provide them with comfort, and ease their pain. The doctors do administer that treatment, among many others. But if that’s not what you mean – yes, you could die here, if the doctor’s were unable to help you in time. But we’ve never had a death that was not intentional,” Kale says proudly.  
   
“Great,” Bucky mutters, “that really puts me at ease.”  
   
“The doctor’s offer a wide range of relaxation services,” Kale continues, oblivious. “There’s no risk of addiction – you’ll be completely detoxed before the end of your stay. As you may have noticed, we like to rely on the more – provincial. The doctors are the only ones with access to the technology but, as I’m sure you will agree, it’s for the good of us all.”  
   
“Right,” Tony agrees, grudgingly. “I sure hate technology.”  
   
“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, we move in a 90-hour day cycle here on Naplion II. When it’s Day, the weather is guaranteed to be light and balmy, but during the 60-hour night the temperature dips below freezing. We make good use of it though, with our winter themed activities! Have you ever skated on an ocean at the edge of the world? Well, now you have your chance!”  
   
“How far are we into a day cycle?” Bucky asks.  
   
“There are seventy-two hours left until Night. Plenty of time to go riding along the beach, or explore the planet if you wish. Alternatively, I can show you our many spa resorts, and the more appetitive among you can sample food by flagging any of our servers. Remember, they wear green!”  
   
The path to the Citadel is paved with cobbled stone. Outside, there are various homesteads where the Naplionites who presumably don’t work in the service of others are going about their day. Women with baskets filled with bread, and children slung on their backs, men smithing actual steel, like a scene out the 17th century. “If you have all this technology, why do your people wear sandals and still farm their own food?”  
   
“Tony! You can’t just – “ Steve dips his voice, “you can’t just _ask_ why people are still agrarian!” He hisses.  
   
“It’s no offence,” Kale says pleasantly. “It is our culture. We believe that the toils of subsistence are harmonious with the community and encourage selflessness. We all serve one another.”  
   
“That’s beautiful,” Steve says, pointedly, glaring in Tony’s direction. “What a – truly beautiful outlook.”  
   
  
   
   
   
   
   
   
“You look weary,” a man says. “Did you travel long?”  
   
Tony sighs, downs his drink. It refills. “No,” he says, “remarkably short, in fact.”  
   
The man leaves his stool and sidles closer, perching himself next to Tony. “I can’t help but feel you are familiar,” he says. Tony turns; the man looks human, aside from the violet eyes and purple hair. Good, strong jaw. A roman nose. “My name is Augustusinian Veronicova the VI. And you are – “  
   
“Tony,” he says, shortly. “Stark,” he adds, grudgingly.  
   
“Oh my,” the man gasps, “I knew I recognised you face. Of the Avengers? I – was lost, during the dust. But you brought me back! My mother would have words with you – “  
   
“Yeah, well I don’t want to have words with her.” Tony drinks, swallows; it’s liquor, but without the same bite. He could drink all evening if he wanted, and the best part is, they’ll wipe his addictions when he leaves.  
   
The man grips his wrist. “Don’t,” he says, gently. “You’re trying to drink away sorrow. You won’t. It’s impossible.”  
   
“Watch me.”  
   
The man doesn’t remove his grip. “I have a better way,” he says. “A forgetting.”  
   
Tony turns. “You, what. You can make me forget?” He voice croaks, at the end of his sentence. A desperation.  
   
“Not me. The doctors. They have a new service – it takes away the bad memories, they say.”  
   
“You’ve used it?”  
   
The man nods. “I have,” he croaks.  
   
“And what’s it like?” Tony asks, hushed. “Did it work?”  
   
The man thinks. And then he starts to smile. “I can’t remember,” he laughs.  
   
Tony laughs, too.  
   
   
“You wish to forget?” The doctor asks kindly.  
   
“I – I’m not sure,” Tony murmurs, staring at the dimmed, muted light above his head. The bed is warm, and soft. Someone is stroking his hair. He’s – incredibly self-concious.  
   
“We can help,” the doctor assures. “It will not be permanent. We can arrange for a twenty- hour forgetting, if that is beneficial.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, “a day. Let me test it out.”  
   
“Is there anything in particular you do not want to remember today?”  
   
“Her,” Tony blurts. “Get rid of her.”  
   
“And anything else?” The doctor asks, gently.  
   
“My parents. I don’t want to see what happened to them. I don’t want to know who killed them.”  
   
“I see that, here,” the doctor says sadly. “We can do this for you, Tony Stark.”  
   
“The bad things,” Tony blurts. “Get rid of – my bad decisions. Please.”  
   
They tell him to count down from ten. He –  
   
   
When he exits the chamber, there’s a man with purple hair and purple eyes waiting on the balcony. He smiles. “Hello,” he says, “did you just have a session?”  
   
“I did,” Tony says, “you?”  
   
The man nods. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? They can just – make you forget. All the awful things.”  
   
“Have you been before?”  
   
The man shrugs. “I can’t remember. Doesn’t really matter, though.” He looks at Tony. “Do you have a name?”  
   
“Tony,” he says. “Stark,” he adds, recalling that everyone here recognises his name. But the man frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t know you,” he says. “But a pleasant day to you, Good Sir!”  
   
Tony wishes him a pleasant day. He decides to sit by the ocean, watching it cascade off the surface of the moon. He can’t remember what was so wrong to begin with. All is well.  
   
   
   
“I wouldn’t,” Bucky shudders. “Reminds me of the chair.”  
   
Tony laughs, which is – a bit harsh, even from him. “Oh sure,” he says dreamily, “it is a little like the dentist’s chair, I guess.”  
   
“Right,” Bucky says, slowly. “You’re, uh – enjoying yourself, huh?”  
   
“Oh yeah,” Tony sighs, “this place is – isn’t it great?”  
   
   
   
“Forgetting?” Bucky asks, alarmed.  
   
“Sure.” Tony turns to him, smiles; Bucky learns, in that moment, he can be disarmingly charming when he wants to be. “Took them right out of my head. All those – bad memories. Only twenty-hours, though,” Tony sighs.  
   
“That’s – horrific.”  
   
Tony frowns at him. “Okay, Mr High and Mighty.”  
   
“Why would you _want_ to forget?”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
“Why not?! Why – Stark, you’re asking _me_ why I wouldn’t want to forget?”  
   
Tony stares at him blankly. And then it occurs to Bucky that Tony doesn’t _remember_ who he is, or rather, what he is. What he did. “Is this about Pepper?” He asks, quietly.  
   
“Who?”

**Author's Note:**

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